


Boiling Over

by superagentwolf



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confessions, First Time, M/M, Minor Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Beta Read, Porn with Feelings, Prompto Whump, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13675551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: After the news about his father and the fall of the city, Noctis is finding it difficult to stay on track. All of his questions and fears come flooding back to him in the absence of a plan to follow. Of course, now would also be the time he starts thinking about Prompto a little too much.It's inconvenient to realize you don't want to get married. It's even more inconvenient to realize it's because of someone else.





	Boiling Over

Camping trips have always been Gladio’s favorite way to train. To bond. Noctis had always put up with it before, since it was only ever for a few days at a time, carefully scheduled by Ignis and approved by the king, taking months to plan.

This is different.

Instead of the usual strict schedule and planned sparring sessions, they’re all wandering, a prince and his guards without a city or king. They go day by day, running small errands and fighting across plains and the swampy slough, struggling to make gil and figure out just what the hell they’re doing.

And somewhere, in the middle of everything, Noctis has time to agonize over the one thing—the one person—he’s been avoiding thinking about since they set out from the city.

Prompto. Bright, sunny, energetic, beautiful Prompto. Yes, beautiful. Because even before, Noctis had always been comfortable appreciating just how perfect Prompto was. Is. Prompto is like some sort of sprite, a mythical creature among the group of four, with his sun-kissed hair and golden freckles. He’s always been the object of Noctis’ wayward fascination, especially in moments when they sit at camp, watching the sun set (if they make it back in time for that). Prompto has always seemed to Noctis like something unreal; at times, when they’d first become friends, Noctis had looked to Ignis in an attempt to reassure himself that Prompto was real and not just a figment of his imagination, a friend conjured up from his loneliness.

Prompto is real, though. Frighteningly, blessedly real—and Noctis is terrified. He’s scared because the moment he had learned of his engagement and impending marriage, his first thought had been, _I’m leaving? I’m going away? I’m going away and they won’t be with me?_ As much as Noctis has wanted to get out and explore the world, stretch his legs, he’s always been adamant that he needs his three at his side. They ground him in ways he can’t describe—Iggy with his pragmatism, Gladio with his unflinching determination. Prompto. The three of them are the only things Noctis has ever needed in his world, aside from the desire to get out.

Now that he’s out, though, he’s losing the three of them and that’s not something he was prepared to do.

Luna has been his oldest friend. He genuinely loves her and he loves talking to her—but the thought of marriage has made him uncomfortable, in some ways. There’s pressure on him; he has expectations to live up to in some ways he can’t put words to and doesn’t know how to refuse. There’s so much about it that’s nagging at Noctis, but he knows he is lucky; his arranged marriage is to someone he counts as a friend and it’s not like he’s going to be living a completely different life. Little is going to change for Noctis.

Except Noctis isn’t going to have his guard—his friends—with him the same way he always has, and that stings a little more than it probably should. They’re a unit as this point, working like some strange, slapdash machine created by a madman to do something no one can figure out. There are moments in battle when Noctis forgets he’s a prince, or forgets he’s fighting with people that are meant to protect him. Those moments blur and Noctis isn’t just Noctis anymore; he’s one of four, the balance to the others, phasing across the battlefield to strike down a monster as Prompto takes a shot and distracts it. There is no _one_ when they fight; there’s only _them._

Lately, though, Noctis has been coming to realize that it’s not entirely true that they’re all just friends. Not when he knows about Iggy and Gladio and not when Noctis has found his own gaze resting on Prompto just a bit too long during their car rides, examining the way the sun lights his best friend’s hair and makes it shine.

The thing he’s been struggling to reduce to a few simple words has become much more complicated and as usual, the world decides to push Noctis into it with the same sneaky inappropriateness that it always does. Because Noctis is a prince and he has a task to complete, but prince be damned, the universe is going to make him face his feelings if it has to destroy everything else in the process.

* * *

Gladio and Prompto get back from a morning run just as Noctis is dragging himself out of the tent, unable to ignore Iggy’s pointed clanging of pots and pans. It’s the usual unfolding of a day—Iggy making breakfast while Gladio and Prompto exercise, Noctis staying asleep as long as possible. Everything about it is pedestrian—and then it happens.

Noctis pushes his hair out of his face, squinting in the sun, barely dressed, one of his boots unlaced and loose on his foot. Prompto is stretching, wincing. There’s something different about the pain in his expression.

“What?” Noctis asks. He’s generally monosyllabic in the morning (and most other times) but he’s not pleased by the pain on Prompto’s face.

“Ugh. Nothing—just yesterday’s fight.”

 _Makes sense._ They’d run into a group of spirocorns at night, already exhausted from the endless MTs that had assaulted them on their way back to camp, and things had been rough. Not dangerous by any means, but certainly not a shining example of their abilities.

“Where?” Gladio asks, interrupting the exchange. Prompto looks a little uncomfortable with the attention, which Noctis expects. He’s almost annoyed that Gladio has interrupted, making it a bigger deal and putting Prompto on the spot.

“Uh—just my neck and shoulder, it’s really not a big deal—,” Prompto starts to explain, looking back over his shoulder, and then he makes a startled noise when Gladio’s large hand is suddenly resting on him. Noctis can tell Prompto is two seconds from skittering away; he’s very particular about touching and his body (even if he does cling to Noctis sometimes when he’s fast asleep).

Before Noctis can defuse the situation, Gladio does something and Prompto moans, his head falling forward a little, his expression one of pure bliss.

Noctis almost chokes on his spit.

 _Oh, Six,_ Noctis thinks, knowing his face is heating up. He blinks rapidly, trying to tear his eyes away from his best friend’s face, and then Gladio blessedly moves away from Prompto.

“Better?” the Shield asks, giant arms crossed over his chest. He’s looking at Prompto with clinical but amused detachment, as if the moan was nothing. Noctis can’t fathom how it couldn’t have affected Gladio. Not that he’s complaining.

“Yeah, thanks. Man, I’m gonna pass out in the car,” Prompto laughs, rubbing his hand over the spot between his neck and shoulder.

It takes Ignis’ call to breakfast for Noctis to break out of his trance, mechanically moving from the spot where he’d been standing. Prompto teases him for not being awake yet and Noctis rolls with it, spilling some uselessly weak jab before staring at the potatoes on his plate. He can’t look Prompto in the face.

Not until he’s had either a cold shower, or a wall to hit his head on.

* * *

Running into dropship after dropship is good for Noctis in the sense that constant fighting makes him almost completely forget Prompto’s moan. The incident lingers at the back of his mind, but Noctis is able to pin his focus elsewhere, concentrating on the battles at hand.

It works amazingly, until Noctis wakes early one morning to Gladio leaving the tent.

“Hey. Morning run?” Gladio nudges Prompto with his foot, keeping his voice low. Noctis frowns at the Shield because it’s hard not to miss a human wall of muscle getting up; Noctis is about to curl back into himself and go back to sleep.

Prompto groans, back arching and arms reaching halfway over his head, and Noctis is incredibly glad Prompto has his eyes closed and Iggy isn’t paying attention.

The way Prompto moves, the curve of his back perfect, his arms flexing unconsciously to support him, makes Noctis’ mouth dry. Prompto’s head is twisted away from Noctis, his neck bared and muscle visible, a soft curve peppered in golden freckles. In the light filtering through the gap of the tent, Prompto is illuminated softly and Noctis knows he’s screwed.

 _Six, he’s beautiful._ It almost makes Noctis want to cry. There Prompto is, with his soft bedhead and lean body, within arm’s reach, and Noctis can’t touch him. He just can’t.

“Fine,” Prompto grumbles, rolling over to push himself up—and even if he complains, Noctis knows there’s not much else that Prompto enjoys in life other than running.

Gladio and Prompto disappear and Noctis has to force himself not to inch over to Prompto’s empty sleeping bag just to bask in the smell of him. He’s got it bad.

_So bad._

* * *

Ignis is the first to notice—or at least, the first to verbally comment.

Sometimes, Noctis really hates his helicopter parent (except he doesn’t; Iggy is the best).

“Oh, my Six. _Please_ tell me we can go swimming,” Prompto pleads, turning away from the lake. His eyes are even bluer than it, somehow putting nature to shame in a way Noctis doesn’t think anyone else could.

Noctis had been banking on going fishing. It’s the best way to clear his mind (even if Gladio frequently tries to backseat fish) and he’s been needing clarity, after one week of killing himself slowly by replaying the sounds Prompto makes.

He’s been banking on it, but Prompto looks so damn _excited_ and when has Noctis ever been able to say no to him?

“I think Noct—,” Ignis starts, clearly about to point out the presence of fish, but Noctis immediately cuts him off.

“Sure. Why not?”

Gladio raises an eyebrow at Noctis but it’s overwhelmed by Prompto’s cheering. Noctis wonders whether he should say something else—about it not being good for fishing, or some other lie—but Gladio decides to say something before he can.

“Finally thinking of others, princess?”

“Shut up,” Noctis says, shrugging off the usual insult with as much care as Gladio had invested in it. It might be a little true. Only a little, though.

Noctis turns to ask Prompto whether he wants to change first but then he turns to see his best friend stripping, practically ripping his shirt over his head as he hops out of his boots. Noctis feels his mouth run dry and he can’t come up with anything to say. _He looks good. I know he looks good_ — _I’ve always known. Not that I stare. Or purposely look. I just have. Looked._

“If you are trying to impress him, you might consider joining him,” Ignis says. Noctis sputters a little before he can stop himself. Ignis just looks around for a place to set up chairs, as if he hadn’t just suggested that Noctis was trying to flirt with Prompto. As if he hadn’t just dropped that little gem on Noctis in the middle of a perfectly normal day.

“Come on, dude—you don’t want me to throw you in there dressed, do you?” Prompto grins and laughs and Noctis has to fight to swallow, eyes sliding all over the place as he tries to avoid all the freckles on display in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Gladio has no shame, of course, and gets completely naked before jumping in the water. Prompto squeaks, still in his underwear, and Noctis has to fight the tiny seed of possessiveness he feels. In the end, Noctis ends up stripped down to his underwear before Prompto grabs him and flings them both over the side of the tiny pier. Noctis pretend he’s trying to get Prompto’s arms off, but really he just wants to feel the chest pressed against his back and the arms pulling him closer.

* * *

It’s not a moan or a groan or anything else remotely sensual that finally gets to Noctis.

They’ve come back to camp after a particularly hard day and they’re all tired, burned out from fighting and making it back in the dark after Noctis had insisted that they finish a nighttime bounty. It’s probably karma that instigates everything.

Ignis is making dinner, constantly pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking, tired. Noctis feels guilty that he does so much—he drives during the day and cooks any time they camp. Noctis feels guilty and he’s about to offer help when Prompto gets up from his chair by the fire and goes to Ignis.

Prompto walks over, hands in his pockets, prepared to offer. He never gets the chance.

“Hey, Ig—,” Prompto starts, standing far enough to be out of the way but close enough to be visible. Ignis turns, a pot in hand, and then something happens.

It might have been a rock. It could have been exhaustion. It could even have been an old ache; a sore muscle protesting as Ignis turned. Whatever it is that happens, Ignis stumbles just the tiniest bit—just a fraction of an inch—and the water splashes.

Noctis is going to hear the scream until the day he dies.

Camp is the one place that’s supposed to be safe. There’s light and food and the tents. It’s safe and Noctis always physically and mentally unravels when their feet hit the flat rock, always so certain that they’ll be fine until the morning.

The peace of the camp, in that fraction of a moment, is shattered. The boiling water splashes and then Prompto screams, startled and pained. Noctis has never heard him scream like that—even in moments when he’s blindsided, Prompto remains quiet, usually so much so that the others have to chide him to call for help louder. When Prompto screams, it’s with the reflex of someone used to seeing things coming, suddenly caught off guard.

“Shit—,” Gladio says, startling from his seat. Ignis is shocked, the most unbalanced Noctis has ever seen him, and Noctis—Noctis is running.

“Prom. Prom—are you—let me see,’ Noctis demands, losing his train of thought in the process of opening his mouth. He wants to ask if Prompto is okay, but he’s obviously not; there’s a horizontal stripe of water across his shirt and he’s still standing there, pale and still. Prompto’s hands hover at his waist, as if he wants to touch but can’t string together the movements needed to do so.

“I—,” Prompto starts, stuttering a little on the simple syllable.

“It needs to be treated,” Ignis says, somehow snapped out of his stupor. His voice is even but he sounds strained. Guilty.

“It’s fine. Really,” Prompto says, blinking, his tongue working at his lip as if they’re dry. “Six—I’m sorry, guys, I don’t know why I yelled so loud—,”

“We gotta take a look at it, kid,” Gladio says, all of his usual nicknames gone as he watches from afar, hands flexing as if he isn’t sure what to do.

It’s almost ironic, how in the face of something so simple, none of them know how to react. Give them a rampaging giantoad and they’d be fine. A spirocorn—no problem. But this?

“May I?” Ignis asks, hands hovering away form Prompto as if he’s afraid to touch.

“I—,” Prompto starts, blinking. He looks panicked; like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Noctis instinctively moves closer—a thousand things rush to mind; the time Prompto had been looked over by one of Noctis’ doctors, the time Prompto had needed stitches and had almost run away from the hospital.

“It’s okay. Let me see, Prom,” Noctis says quietly. Ignis has already somehow backed away, as if sensing the divide, and Noctis focuses on Prompto as he lifts the wet shirt.

Gladio hisses in sympathy at the welt that’s already forming, an angry red stripe that’s thick and strangely shaped. It looks like the splash that it was, with tiny drops decorating the top of it and an uneven edge. It would be beautiful, if it weren’t painful and terrible.

“Shit,” Noctis murmurs. “We might need—,”

“We don’t have anything,” Gladio says suddenly, just as the realization hits Noctis. _Fuck._ All of their stores are dry, run out in a fight they hadn’t expected when they were out. They’d managed to make it fine through the day, but it had been on their list for the next morning.

Except now, it can’t wait.

“I’m taking him to the beachside,” Noctis says immediately, standing from where he was crouching by Prompto’s side.

“That’s dangerous—,” Ignis starts, but Noctis is already pulling his jacket on.

“It’s not. It’s only a mile down the beach. There’s never been anything between here and there. One of the shops will still be open. If we don’t take care of it, it’ll scar.”

And Noctis knows how much Prompto hates scars. Hates the marks on his sides and legs, where no one can usually see. The marks that remind him of what he used to be, before he started running. They’ve never been as much of a problem because they’re hidden. This—the mark on his lower stomach—is something Noctis won’t let him carry. Not for a stupid mistake. _A stupid mistake that happened because I kept us out too long._

“Don’t take too long,” Gladio says, effectively ending the conversation. He gives Noctis a knowing look—the same one Ignis gave him not a few days ago—and Noctis doesn’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed or annoyed. He’s too worried.

“It’s really fine,” Prompto laughs, apparently pulling himself far enough out of shock that he can go back to being himself. He looks down at his stomach with mild interest. “Jeez, Iggy, if you didn’t want help, you could have just said so.”

Prompto laughs and brings the sunshine back with him. Ignis says something again—an apology, or maybe something quieter—but Noctis tugs at Prompto’s arm.

“Let’s go. It’s already late.”

“What—dude, I’m fine—,” Prompto protests, but Noctis is already leading them away. The lights of the resort are twinkling in the deep blue sky, the night marching on.

“I’m fine, Noct.”

“No. It’s not far—we need to take care of it.”

“Take care of it? It’s just a burn,” Prompto laughs. Noctis practically stops in his tracks, his mind swirling. Prompto frowns, a flicker of concern in his eyes, as if Noctis is the one with a red welt on his stomach.

“It’s my fault,” Noctis says shortly before starting to walk again, driving his feet into the sand as if it’s done something wrong. Prompto splutters, tripping to catch up, and then he finally gets in front of Noctis to stop him, his arm breaking free from Noctis’ grip.

“What did you just say?” Prompto is staring at him, blue eyes narrowed. Noctis feels like he can’t move under that gaze; he’s pinned in place, open and exposed.

“It’s my fault,” Noctis manages to grind out. The fatalistic voice in his head tells him _this is it_.

“Explain to me how the fuck that was your fault, ‘cause buddy, I’m _real_ bad at math.”

“It’s my fault—I’m the one that said yes to that stupid bounty; I’m the one that made us stay out late; I’m the reason we ran out of potions—the reason Iggy even spilled that water in the first place!”

“Damn. I mean, I know you’re a prince, but could you be a little less self-important?” Prompto fires back. Even in the dark, with the silver moon overtaking everything, he’s still golden. Still a child of the sun, bright and fiery as he stands on the beach with his hands on his hips as if he’s the prince and Noctis the guard.

“What—,”

“You don’t even know if it was because Iggy was tired. Anyway, it’s not your fault about the potions—we had a hard fight and we needed them. I’d rather be killed by boiling water—which is _not_ going to happen, by the way—than have you killed in the middle of a fight.”

“Don’t say that,” Noctis mutters. He can feel his chest tightening. _That’s the promise,_ he can hear in his head, _that’s what the Kingsguard promises; they give their lives. Always have, always will. He will give it for you, one day. Maybe he already has, and you just haven’t noticed. You haven’t cared._

“Say what?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say you’re going to die,” Noctis repeats, his throat tight, “not because of me. Not because of my mistake.”

Prompto’s gaze softens and he sighs quietly, looking out toward the ocean. This is familiar. They’ve been somewhere like this before, when Prompto had first explained his desire to protect Noctis and Noctis had immediately railed at him, angry, _you’re my one friend, my best friend, I won’t let you do that._

“I’m not going to throw away my life,” Prompto says slowly. “I promise. But you have to promise me not to think that you’re a waste of my protection. I protect you because I want to. Because I’m proud to.”

“And what about me? What if I want to protect you?” Noctis snaps.

 _Oh._ Noctis thinks he can hear a sand crab. The silence roars around them like the ocean. Prompto is frozen in mid-speech, eyes wide. He’s—

_Blushing?_

Noctis can feel realization settling in his chest. He knows the gravity of what he’s done. He knows and he’s suddenly terrified, so he starts hiking his way past Prompto in the sand. They’re three feet from the shop. It takes a moment for Prompto to scramble after him, clearly wanting to talk but unable to say anything before they reach the shop.

Noctis stocks up and they both head back. There’s so much between them—so much tension, so many questions and unspoken words. There’s too much and Noctis can’t say anything else; he’s stripped to the bone, too raw to face what he’s done.

When they get back to camp, Ignis insists on checking Prompto, helping him with the potion before they all sit down to dinner. The rice tastes like sawdust in Noctis’ mouth. By the time they all settle in their sleeping bags, Noctis is cursing himself, closing his eyes tight against the world as if they can keep his mistakes away.

As if he can forget his confession.

* * *

Of course, Prompto doesn’t forget. There’s not time to talk about it, of course, constantly on the move—at least, not until Ignis announces that they’re staying in a motel for the night. They’re all in need of a hard reset, the toll of constant fighting tallying up too much for them to ignore it. Prompto cheers, although he’s a little less enthusiastic than usual—he has been, since the incident.

Since Noctis had told him _I want to protect you_.

Ignis gets two rooms, which is the first clue that something is up. Noctis immediately follows Ignis, expecting to be saddled with his usual nanny, but Gladio just gives him a raised eyebrow and turns him with one large hand, redirecting Noctis toward the room next door.

“What—,”

“’Night. Don’t be too loud,” Gladio says, smirking as he shuts the door behind him.

 _Tell that to yourself,_ Noctis wants to yell, affronted. He’s had more than enough nights in his life when he’s had to turn the music up to ignore the sounds that filter from Gladio and Ignis when they’re together.

Noctis is left to face the room where Prompto has already started the shower, stretching his arms and twisting his torso like he’s just finished running a race. It’s his usual evening cooldown; Noctis has seen him do it a dozen times, along with weird poses that he assumes is some kind of yoga. _I wish he’d do that now._ Noctis pushes the thought away, clearing his throat.

“Showering?”

“No, just wasting water,” Prompto says cheekily. Noctis rolls his eyes. This is comfortable—whatever the stilted feeling is that’s been invading their group dynamic, it’s not here. Not now.

Prompto pulls his shirt over his head and Noctis wants to die a little. He doesn’t have time to look away from Prompto’s back and he gets an eyeful of skin, with the freckles at Prompto’s shoulders sprinkled just so, as if they’re trying to join in the middle. _They almost look like angel wings._

And if that isn’t the most embarrassing thought Noctis has had yet about Prompto, he doesn’t know what is.

Noctis notices the mark in the mirror—the red welt has changed, now a darker shade than Prompto’s skin, likely healing. It’s stark against his pale body and Noctis wants to reach out and touch but he doesn’t, sitting on the bed behind Prompto and swallowing thickly.

“Does it hurt?”

Prompto pauses, hands at the waist of his jeans. He meets Noctis’ eyes in the mirror and there’s something weary in his gaze. He doesn’t seem happy. _Why? I’m just worried about him._

“It’s fine.”

“You can tell me if it’s not,” Noctis pushes, feeling something catch in his throat. He wants to say, _you’re not a burden,_ but he doesn’t get to. Prompto turns, raising his eyebrows up toward his fluffy hair.

“Is that all you can look at? The stupid burn?”

Noctis blinks. His mouth works to form words but they don’t come, lost somewhere along with his train of thought. Even as he’s stammering to say something, Prompto rubs at his neck self-consciously. _He’s blushing again. Blushing._ The trace of pink in his cheeks gives Noctis hope, even if it’s fluttering and barely there. It gives him enough to reach out, pretending that his hand doesn’t shake when he rests it on Prompto’s hip. Prompto bites his lip and Noctis wants to be the one with his teeth— _wait._

“I just want to know you’re okay. It scared me. I thought something had happened—that maybe—,”

“You thought it was an attack,” Prompto sighs, closing his eyes. Noctis finds himself staring at the skin in front of his eyes, looking at a tiny freckle randomly dropped above Prompto’s belly button.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it.”

“Noct. It’s not your fault. Don’t be sorry about it,” Prompto says, sounding borderline frustrated, like he’s trying to say something but doesn’t know how. “I—listen, I know you have a lot to worry about. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m fine.”

Noctis nods, not sure what to say. He can feel his hair brushing against Prompto’s skin. It might tickle, because Prompto shivers a little and then Noctis looks up. The teeth are still there, worrying at a lip. Prompto flushes a little more, eyes darting away from Noctis’ gaze. _He knows I’m looking._ He knows and he doesn’t say anything or move away.

 _Do I or don’t I?_ It’s the same question on a loop. He can’t bring himself to care anymore. He has his hand on Prompto already; there’s no distance. Not the innocuous moan from Gladio rubbing at Prompto’s sore muscles; not the groan Prompto had uttered while waking up in the morning. Not that scream. There’s nothing here but a bedroom to themselves and the fact that, even if he hadn’t realized it, Noctis has already broken his rules. He’s touching Prompto.

He’s touching him and now there’s nothing; no thin line and no excuses.

Noctis dips his thumb beneath Prompto’s jeans, careful and curious, and Prompto shivers. There’s a noise that Prompto squashes in his throat, the sound reduced to a small hum. Noctis can feel heat rising in his blood—a tiny reaction to the sound. To the body before him.

He’s not thinking anymore. His other hand fits perfectly on Prompto’s hips and then Noctis is holding him in place, ducking closer, his mouth closing around the little freckle just by Prompto’s stomach. Prompto reacts suddenly, jerking under Noctis’ touch, his hands threading into Noctis’ hair.

“Ngh—Noct—what—,” Prompto stutters. He sounds uneven; it goes straight to Noctis’ dick. He can’t even lie to himself about the fact anymore. Noctis _loves_ the way Prompto sounds. He loves that the bright, cheery voice he’s known for most of his life is replaced by a soft, sweet velvet. When Prompto is aware—when he isn’t thinking about his body or about anything else around him—he sounds like a drug.

Noctis isn’t sure when he decides that he’s going to do it, but his hands slip under Prompto’s waistband, searching. _Even his skin feels like velvet. Six, he’s soft._ Prompto whines in his throat, fingers tightening in Noctis’ hair. The sharp sensation almost makes Noctis dizzy with pleasure.

“Wait—wait, Noct,” Prompto manages to choke out. He extracts himself enough to inch back, even though his hands are still tangled in Noctis’ hair. “What—why are you—,”

“I want you,” Noctis says. He feels the words like fire on his tongue, the whiskey he’d been allowed on his last birthday, when he’d been safe at his apartment with Prompto laughing and threatening to take pictures. It’s so simple but so heavy.

“Is—is that what this is?” Prompto asks. His breathing is heavy but he still manages to string words together, worrying at his lip again. “Just…is it just…”

“No. No, Six,” Noctis says immediately, panic rising in his chest. “No. You—you’ve been my best friend forever, Prom, I’m not just…I’m not just horny.”

“…but you are,” Prompto finally says, a shaky smile back on his lips. “For…me?”

“Yes, for you,” Noctis says, half exasperated and half on fire. He knows his face is red but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when his hands are still touching Prompto and his impossibly wonderful skin. “Six, Prom. You’re important to me. I’ve been thinking about you this whole trip—I’ve been thinking about how much I’m going to hate not being with you all the time. Not being able to go places or do whatever we want. Not being able to just—do things. Together.”

“You’ve been thinking about that?” Prompto asks, shaky. He blinks faster and Noctis thinks he can see tears. _Shit._

“I—yeah, I mean, I love Luna. She’s my friend. But I just…I feel like I’m losing everything. I’m losing you.”

“You’re not losing me,” Prompto whispers, the tears finally spilling over his cheeks. Noctis hates them and he doesn’t want this between them; not this pain.

“I’m sorry. I’ll—I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“What? Noct— _Six_ , Noct, you don’t even know—you don’t know how happy it makes me. How much I’ve wanted to hear that,” Prompto says, laughing a little, the sound broken by his tears.

“What?” Noctis hesitates, feeling the hope in his heart start to bloom.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” Prompto says, still laughing in a way that isn’t funny at all. “I _was_. I wanted you to be happy. That’s all I ever wanted. I thought you were going to be happy with Luna. As much as I believed that, I—I couldn’t stop hurting. I just kept wishing things could always be the way they were. Just us.”

“Why—why didn’t you—,”

“Because it wasn’t my place. Noct, you’re a—you’re the prince and I’m barely your guard. You just…you could have had anyone, even before you were engaged, and I—,”

“You’re _beautiful,_ ” Noctis interrupts, firm. He thinks maybe his hands are tighter on Prompto’s sides but he can’t bring himself to stop. “Prom, you are _beautiful_. You— _Six,_ I know how hard you work and I know how much you care and I need you to know.”

Prompto stares at him like Noctis has just given him the moon. He looks at Noctis as if he’s something special—and Noctis realizes that this is exactly why he’s fallen so hard. Prompto doesn’t see _someone special_ or _someone important_ when he looks at Noctis. When he talks to his friend. They’ve always been friends before everything; Prompto looks at Noctis like he’s a sum of his parts and not just a title like _prince_. Like _future king_. Prompto has always looked at Noctis with a hundred stories in his eyes—with the knowledge that Noctis hates vegetables and loves Kings Knight, that Noctis hates bugs and likes sleeping in late. With the knowledge that Noctis is _Noctis_ and nothing else. Not an empty and formal title.

“Did you just…you just called me beautiful,” Prompto mumbles, blinking. Some of his tears fall on Noctis. Prompto is still pulling at his bottom lip.

He’s only really done this h or twice before—almost all accidents, with confessions or girls brave enough to steal a kiss from the Crown Prince before he ultimately turned them down. Noctis has certainly never been the one initiating before and he’s certainly never kissed someone like Prompto. _Someone as important._ He’s terrified and worried but he can’t stay away; he wants to taste and he wants to stop the abuse Prompto’s lip is taking. That Prompto is taking, inside his mind.

Noctis knows the mechanics of a kiss. He starts slowly, just a press, and then his knees almost go weak when Prompto opens his mouth and leans in, his breath hot. Prompto knows what he’s doing—either because he’s a natural or because he’s done it; Noctis doesn’t care—and Noctis is all too willing to open his mouth to Prompto, letting him take the lead.

It isn’t until there’s a tongue pressing into his mouth that Noctis finally feels the _holy Six_ sparks flying. He thinks his ears are ringing or maybe he’s getting dizzy; now he’s the one moaning, flushing at the sounds he’s making. He shoves Prompto’s jeans down, away, and his fingers scrape against Prompto’s skin reflexively as he tries to find a grip wherever he can. Noctis chases the moan in Prompto’s mouth as if he can swallow it, pushing back against him. They’re getting messy and rough; Prompto stumbles over his jeans, kicking them from his ankles, and Noctis is very aware that he is the only one that’s dressed.

The second Noctis moves away to say something—to ask, maybe if this is all right or if Prompto wants to move—Prompto is tearing at Noctis’ shirt, panting as he suddenly starts in on Noctis’ neck.

“Shit—Prom,” Noctis gasps, stumbling back a little when he feels hands at his pants. He reacts the only way he can, kneading at Prompto’s ass under his hands, his heart stuttering at the muscle and softness there. Prompto’s moan is almost a cry against Noctis’ neck, muffled and strained.

“Fuck. Noct,” Prompto whines and his voice is so needy that Noctis feels a very hot rush of blood in his veins. His underwear is too harsh against his skin and he knows he’s so hard they probably won’t get anywhere; if Prompto touches him, Noctis knows he’ll be done. “I—the bath. Please.”

Noctis can’t argue. They barely manage to untangle themselves; Noctis hates leaving Prompto’s body, his hands feeling cold without the body beneath them. They somehow get into the bathroom and Noctis has his underwear off before he can think to be embarrassed or awkward about it. Prompto practically rips his off, stopping the flow of water. It’s almost overfilled but it smells wonderful, something thick and heady filling the bathroom. Whatever the scent is—some flower, maybe, and sandalwood—does nothing to help Noctis slow down.

“I…are you okay with—?” Prompto doesn’t finish his question, hesitating, glancing at the tub. Noctis can guess what he wants; as nervous as he is, he trusts Prompto enough to do what he’s asking, so he climbs into the tub first, exhaling slowly when he submerges himself in the hot water.

Prompto watches him with cloudy eyes, his lips swollen and red, and then he joins Noctis, lowering himself carefully until he’s straddling Noctis, a small gasp escaping his lips when he presses close. Noctis feels almost overheated, between the water and Prompto; his body feels heavy and all he wants is to be touched but he holds back. Or at least, he tries—and then Prompto is feeling behind his back, his hand curling around Noctis’ dick as if it was made to be the perfect size, and Noctis almost comes right there.

“Oh— _shit_ ,” Noctis gasps. He barely stops himself from hitting the rim of the tub with his head as he tosses it back, blinking past the stars in his eyes. He can’t categorize every sensation—the way Prompto’s ass is lined up perfectly against him and the way his erection is pressed against Noctis’ stomach, heavy and hot.

Noctis has experimented enough by himself, in the confines of his bedroom; he’s no stranger to his body. He knows what he likes and what’s possible. He’s never had this before, though—not another person, moving and touching and doing things he isn’t prepared for and can’t expect. Not even all of his lazy Sundays in bed could ever compare to the way Prompto’s hand feels on him, torturously slow and so very different than Noctis’.

“Good?” Prompto asks, breathless. He’s leaning into Noctis, his ocean eyes heavy-lidded and out of focus.

“Yes, _Six_ —yes, Prom, keep going—,” Noctis gasps, pressing up into his touch.

Somewhere in the middle of Prompto’s hand being on his dick and Noctis closing his eyes, there’s a plastic snap and Noctis barely comes back to reality to see Prompto with lube on his free hand, rising just out of the water to lean over Noctis.

As beautiful as Prompto is, Noctis isn’t prepared to see his face when his hand disappears behind him, a small _ah_ catching in his throat. Prompto is flushed like a peach, looking just as sweet, the freckles on his skin even more beautiful in the warm light.

“Six, you look good—I wish you could see yourself, Prom, you’re so fucking beautiful,” Noctis says, almost babbling, forgetting what he’s thinking as every word leaves his mouth. He’s dizzy with stimulation and he knows he won’t last. Prompto seems to glow with the praise, a little cry escaping his lips as he arches back into his hand. “Let me.”

“But—,”

“I’m going to come if you keep doing this, Prom, please,” Noctis says, laughing breathlessly. “I don’t want you to open yourself up for nothing.”

Prompto’s eyes are dark when he nods, his hands moving away. Noctis misses his touch immediately but reminds himself _it’s supposed to feel good for both of us._ He lets Prompto get a hold on the tub, his arms stretched and muscles tense. _He looks so good._ Noctis is careful at first, his hand tracing down Prompto’s back; he tries to memorize the feeling, every inch of skin beneath his fingers. Prompto moans, pressing back into his touch. Noctis can feel the give Prompto already has from just one finger; he traces Prompto’s hole with the pad of his finger, slow.

“ _Please,_ ” Prompto whines, arms shaking. Noctis wants to hear that voice for the rest of his life. Prompto’s chest is right there above him and Noctis moves forward, his mouth closing around a nipple. As soon as he does, he slips his finger in and Prompto nearly _yells_ , his moan vibrating in the small space. “ _Fuck, yes,_ Noct—please, need more—,”

“More what?” It leaves his mouth before he can stop it. All of his attitude spills forth like it always does, except he’s inexperienced and he has no right to be like this with Prompto.

Prompto seems to disagree.

“Need you in me, need you to open me more,” Prompto gasps and then he’s pushing back, sliding down onto Noctis’ hand like it’s nothing.

“ _Fuck_ , you want it,” Noctis manages; he’s transfixed by the way Prompto is moving. He barely has time to add another finger before Prompto rocks against him, his panting making a soundtrack to the scene. “You want me in you that bad?”

“Yes, _yes,_ I want you—want you in me.”

“Have you been this hot the whole time? Pressing yourself against the ground in the tent?” Noctis isn’t even sure where his questions are coming from. He can just imagine Prompto, flushed after a run, collapsing onto his sleeping bag. Breathless and red. _Just like this._ Noctis can’t remember how the hell he managed to keep his hands away.

“Yes, yes,” Prompto repeats, his hands slipping from the tub. The water splashes and his arms are wet when they hang over Noctis’ shoulders, nails scraping at Noctis’ back. Noctis can feel how hard Prompto is; he knows they’re going too fast again and he has to remind himself to reel it in. He doesn’t want Prompto to unravel on his hand. _Not tonight._

“Don’t move,” Noctis says suddenly. Prompto stutters in his movements, blinking, his body shaking.

“What? What’s wrong—,”

“Nothing. I want you to stay still,” Noctis says. He sounds commanding to his own ears and he almost takes it back immediately but Prompto blushes even deeper, breath hitching. Noctis is quiet when he speaks again. “Did you like that, Prom? You like me telling you what to do?”

“No,” Prompto says immediately, in the same tone he uses when he’s lying. Badly. “Spoiled prince.”

“You shouldn’t talk to your prince that way,” Noctis says slowly. The heat below his stomach and his abandoned dick both take interest in what he’s doing. _God. What’s wrong with me?_ He’s never been fond of giving orders or being a prince, especially with Prompto. _So why is this different?_

 _Probably because we’re having sex,_ his brain helpfully supplies, and his dick throbs just thinking about it. Whatever this is—whatever they’re doing—it’s good. Better than good. Noctis doesn’t even care whether this will be the usual or not; all he wants is to stop thinking.

So, he does.

Noctis has three fingers in Prompto without any warning, reaching as far as he can, and Prompto moans shamelessly, like he does everything. He doesn’t move. Noctis smiles, taking his time, moving as slow as he can while opening Prompto as much as he can.

“Please— _please, Noct_.”

“Patience. I know you have stamina,” Noctis says, smirking.

“ _F_ — _Fuck_ you.”

“I thought _you_ wanted to be fucked.”

“I swear to Six,” Prompto gasps, shivering as Noctis changes his angle, “if you don’t fucking _fuck me_ in three second, I’m gonna go next door and—,”

Noctis doesn’t give him a chance to finish. As much as he thinks it would have been interesting to hear the end of it, Noctis isn’t sharing. His hand retreats and Prompto makes a sound of displeasure before he realizes that Noctis is adjusting himself in the bathtub.

“Are you sure?” Noctis asks, pausing.

Prompto looks down at him, wrecked and blushing, and Noctis reminds himself to include the camera next time. Prompto leans down and Noctis sighs, enjoying the kiss—it’s slower than before but just as deep, as if they can communicate everything they need to with one touch. Prompto breaks the kiss and Noctis follows him for a moment, the taste of Prompto still on his tongue.

“Yes,” Prompto says, his hand guiding Noctis.

Noctis almost breaks when he feels Prompto pressing down against him, a small pressure at first before an endless slide that makes Noctis close his eyes, his moan reverberating in his ears. It’s effortless, for all their work, no tension or friction between them.

“You feel so good, Prom, _Six_ ,” Noctis breathes, pressing his fingers against Prompto’s hips. He follows the way they dip from his sides, angled and perfect, and then Noctis wraps his fingers around Prompto’s dick.

“I’m not—I can’t go long,” Prompto gasps, levering himself back up again. “ _Noct_. You’re perfect—fill me up perfect—,”

Noctis’ hands move almost on their own, gripping Prompto, pushing him down harder and faster. Prompto cries out at the push and then Noctis is seeing stars, very acutely aware that he is balls deep, nothing between the two of them. He recognizes this and then Prompto _grinds_ against him, rocking his hips in a circle, and Noctis feels the beginnings of an orgasm pulsing low in his groin.

“You like it deep? You want to fuck yourself? Ride me as hard as you can?”

“ _Yes, fuck yes_ — _,_ ”

“Harder,” Noctis says, barely able to untangle what he’s asking and what he wants to give, his hand stroking Prompto as if it’s his dick he’s jerking. It might as well be, as connected as they are; Noctis can barely tell where he ends and Prompto begins. “ _Six_ , I love you, Prom, I fucking _love_ you—,”

“Ah—Noct, love you, I love you, I need you—,” Prompto is spilling over the edges, his words splashing like the water escaping the tub, and he slams against Noctis so hard that Noctis thinks they’re going to break the tub.

Prompto leans down to kiss Noctis, a mess of teeth and tongue and heavy breathing. They’re connected more than anything Noctis has felt before; more than the way they work as a team and even more than when they cross-strike, their hands gripped tight and bodies moving in tandem. This is more than any connection to anyone or anything than Noctis has ever known. It’s almost too much.

Almost, and then Prompto is gasping, rocking against Noctis, tightening. He’s so tight that Noctis can’t even say anything about it—though Six, does he want to, because it’s _perfect_ and _everything_ —and then Noctis is gasping through his own orgasm, all the heat in him bursting at once. He can feel Prompto gripping him and the way every pulse and twitch is heightened. They both shudder through the aftermath, Prompto rocking against Noctis, and then the wave subsides. Noctis blinks lazily, aware that he’s staring at a shoulder full of freckles, and he realizes he never had a chance to taste them. He kisses Prompto’s shoulder without warning, tongue flicking out, and he decides that it's perfect.

_He's perfect._

“I meant it,” Prompto says quietly. Noctis moves back, confused.

“What?”

“I meant it,” Prompto repeats, visibly steeling himself. “I do love you.”

His gaze is challenging and open and Noctis is prouder than he’s ever been before. Noctis knows how much it costs Prompto to open up and how much more it costs for him to be this forthcoming, considering their mutual confessions. Considering how little Prompto thinks of himself. _I’m going to have to change that._

“Good. I did, too,” Noctis says, pushing away some of the wet hair from Prompto’s forehead. There are freckles hiding there, just under the strands that usually fan across the side of his face. “I love you.”

Prompto laughs, perfect and uncomplicated, and leans in for another kiss. It’s a promise and a seal, an _I love you_ spoken in silence, only to each other.

It’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't finished the game but I've seen spoilers and I want everyone to know that I rebuke it.  
> Anyway, I love me some Prompto and he deserves everything in the world. Noctis included. I can't be the only one that actively has to pause the game any time they yell each other's names in combat.  
> Hopefully you enjoy this. More to come soon. Feel free to leave a comment or a cookie. I take both as forms of currency and bribery, if you want a specific prompt filled.


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